


This Moment Changes Everything

by halacombe



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Slow Burn, strangers to friends to sort of enemies to best friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-11-22 05:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11373963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halacombe/pseuds/halacombe
Summary: The sun sets and the sun rises and Simmons keeps on breathing and Grif keeps on sitting next to him, with complaints on his lips and eyes that see a whole lot more than Simmons is comfortable with. The rain falls and the stars throb and the sergeant shouts and the rookie smiles and the ships explode and the bullets are traded and the maroon guy hangs over the dying orange guy and they stare and stay and stay together with their hands on each other's chest plates and their eyes closed.The title comes from 'Change is Everything' by Son Lux. I found the song while writing this and was immediately in love with everything about it.Tags and Warnings will be updated along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

They thought it’d be funny to lock the doors to the barracks, which is alright. Simmons supposes that it might have been funny if he was on the inside, rather than out in the rain.

His civvies are soaked through, clinging to his shoulders and thighs and they’re heavy and cold. The breeze makes his skin crawl, shiver something violent, but the rain pelts at his face, lathers onto his skin and Simmons closes his eyes, face tilted up towards the open and brewing sky, and he lets it wash over him.

He’s alone here, there are no windows, no patrols, and the lamplight is gentle and rolling. He’d feel more upset if there was a crowd, more embarrassed that people are watching him be humiliated, but it’s hard to be humiliated when you’re alone. He manages it sometimes, but it’s hard.

After a couple minutes, more than a few, less than an hour, Simmons hears the quiet click of the lock, and the door swooshes open behind him. He whips around to find his bunkmate staring down at him, pity written all over her face, dripping and self-serving. She’s dry in the shelter of the metal building, eyes sad and mouth opening to say something, but Simmons doesn’t want to hear it.

He pushes through the doorway, mumbling a quiet thank you, and then climbs into the bottom bunk without stripping. He drags the covers up to his nose, curls his knees forward, and closes his eyes as Santiago clambers into the bunk above him, shaking the bed.

* * *

The rain soothes Simmons, the way it soothes a lot of people. People tend to think that they’re special for liking the rain, that others don’t like to stand out and get soaked, feel the wind tug at and feel the thunder thunder through their chests, but Simmons has had a lifetime of not feeling special and he’s not about to start changing now. He takes a breath, savors the pull of the storm, the smell of rain thick on the breeze, and polishes his armor.

His mildness is tainted with disdain as he watches the scene unfold before him; he’s got his chest piece in his lap, an oiled rag hanging limply from his right hand, and a bottle of armor polish sitting by his socked feet.

Down at the entrance of the mess hall it’s a jumble of regulation grey, arms thrown around each other and chest plates colliding as three soldiers haul a struggling one out and toss him down the steps onto the dirt, which poofs, all gritty and light.

There’s a verbal spat, some rude gestures are thrown back and forth, and then the three standing soldiers spin on their heels, slamming the doors behind them, and the one sitting on the floor sneers, rips his helmet off and tosses it at the building. It clunks, bounces with a dull thud, and rolls a couple feet away.

Circular motions. The best, cleanest sheen comes from tight circular motions. You don’t want any streaks, after all. Simmons scrubs in circular motions, pressing hard on his index and middle finger, making them cramp, and the wind picks up, and the helmet-less soldier flops heavily onto his back with a groan.

He probably thinks he’s alone; everyone’s usually crammed in their bunks with a deck of cards or crowded around the radio this time of night, not cleaning armor or wrestling their way into the mess hall.

Simmons polishes, occasionally glancing up, but he’s far enough away to not be noticed, and it doesn’t seem like the guy cares all that much. The soldier stays sprawled, black hair, cropped like everyone else’s, blowing in the wind and palms open towards the incoming clouds.

The first droplets fall, a splatter of small, uneven drips, and Simmons begins packing up, folding his rag and double checking his progress, and by the time it really starts to rain, he’s in the doorway with an armful of armor and cramping hands. Early onset arthritis is beginning to become a very real fear of his. Well, that and a vitamin D deficiency because he’s seriously not getting enough sun boarded up in his armor all day.

Simmons jiggles the door handle, barely managing to barge it open with his elbow, then turns around to nudge the door open with his back. It begins to rain harder, and the soldier in the dirt does not move from his position on his back. His hair wets, plasters to his forehead, and rain rolls off his armor and blacks. The dust is packed down with the force of the downpour, the dirt begins to turn to mud, and he lays there, eyes closed, Simmons assumes, chest barely rising with his shallow breaths.

He’s a little curious, Simmons is always a little curious, but right now, the curiosity isn’t itching and burning and he doesn’t want to get wet and so he pushes through the doorway into his barracks. The door shuts behind Simmons with a clank, the tin roof is alive with the rain, pattering and wobbling in the wind, and Simmons carefully stows his armor in his locker, helmet straight, chest piece even, everything in place and right. He sinks into his bunk and pulls out the book he brought from home.

Home.

There’s something he has to do.

* * *

“So, what’s the problem, private?” The medic uncrosses then crosses his legs, shifting his weight to the right as he resettles into his chair. He looks clean, cleaner than most of the people Simmons interacts with. His hair is tied back into a bun and he’s got a big white-toothed smile and he’s looking at Simmons with the kindest of eyes, crows feet and everything.

“I-” Simmons stops himself and looks away, feeling like he’s being cooked alive standing in the sickbay with his armor on and two rows of empty beds at his back and a nice, happy medic smiling up at him from his roll-y chair like he’d do anything to fix the world for the fuck up that is Simmons. “I’d like to start hormone – hormone therapy and I know it’s covered by my health insurance and I – I – I” Simmons begins to teeter, and sway and he should not have said that because this was – this was a really bad idea because who cares if this dude’s a trained medical professional because someone will find out, somebody always finds out and then it’s going to be all over for poor old –

“Hey, hey,” The medic says, reaching out a hand to steady Simmons and the contact makes Simmons melt, “It’s okay! You’re right, hormone therapy _is_ covered by your insurance. I’m glad you brought this up.”

Simmons nods dumbly, not trusting himself to say anything intelligent because yea, he may have read every book and web-page about hormone therapy that he could get his hands on but he is by no means an expert and this, this talking about embarrassing shit thing, he’s not good at. He never has been.

“Alright,” the medic continues, “There are just a few things we need to do before we get you started.”

Simmons nods again and feels a pin prick of nice, solid happiness starting up in his chest, like starting an engine on a lawn mower as the medic continues listing options and all the different paths he can take because he has real choices and his feelings are real and this is good. This is really good.

* * *

It’s hot. The fact that it’s hot is something pretty obvious, but goddamn, is it hot, and the sun is bearing down on Simmons like he’s in the fifteenth fucking ring of hell and with the scratchy voice of his drill sergeant screaming himself hoarse, he might as well be.

He’s a little terrified of boiling alive in his armor, which is very, very made of metal. Or… Thinking about it, maybe he’d get steamed alive like some vegetables at a nice dinner if his sweat creates enough moisture... Or maybe the Kevlar his blacks are made out of would sear him. Really, nothing about this suit was made with the breathability of the ensemble in mind, and sure, he’s got some ventilation, he can hear the little fans whirr at the back of his skull, but that does jack-squat when you’re sweating and panting and _exercising_ in the ninety-degree heat. Too hot. Maybe he’d get heat stroke.

“You’re falling behind, Private!”

Simmons gasps a _sorry, sir!_ As he passes one of his instructors, and glancing forward reveals that he is, in fact, falling behind. Embarrassingly behind. The distant shouts of his sergeant seem miles away and the pack of jogging privates seems to shrink in the distance. Simmons tries to pick up the pace, his gut filling with tight, ugly feelings that border on shame and disappointment, and then he stumbles, almost loosing his footing. He kicks up some dust, wheezes, his arms fly out to try and keep his balance, and then just as quickly as he lost his balance, he’s on his way again, just one foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, right, left, right, left –

Then right.

The trail ambles underneath him, bobbing oddly as his body rises and sinks with each new booted footfall. His muscles are past burning, past screaming and complaining and throwing a tantrum. Now, they just feel like they’ve up and abandoned him, left him with buzzing, sleepy air for legs.

Are they still there? His brain scrambles, and then he glances down to check and yes, he does, in fact, still have his legs. They’re still there. Okay. Feet, too. He still has those, too.

Left, right, left, right, left, right, left –

“Oh, _fuck!_ ” Simmons startles as the ground disappears beneath him, shrinks to a tiny strip of metal for a path and a canyon miles deep blooms on either side of his legs. He shrieks and flails backwards in an attempt to stop, but ends up skidding a couple inches across the smooth surface of the bridge instead and the idea of him falling from so high forces his stomach into his throat.

“Simmons! What are you doing?”

Simmons hears Hammer’s voice, but can’t reply, and even if could, he wouldn’t because Hammer is most definitely not his superior officer, just some jerk-off private who wants to be in charge. Simmons shakes his head as he struggles against his wobbly legs to hold the ground closer to him.

This is it. One false step and he’s gone, and he can’t stop looking _down_. Down way far below where there are people mulling about and a Warthog lazily makes its way in between the supply crates and soldiers, all of them totally unaware of Simmons imminent demise.

He knew from the start that dying from something heroic just wasn’t realistic for someone like him, but Simmons at least thought that he’d get to his first battle, maybe second if he hid well enough. Not this, not falling off a bridge in fucking _basic_. Why does he have to be such a disappointment to fucking _everyone_ , himself included? Why doesn’t he have the human decency to not suck at everything he does except for computer stuff and correcting people when they misinterpret the rules to Dungeons and Dragons?

“C’mon, man, you can do it! Just keep moving!”

Now that Simmons thinks about it, Hammer’s voice sounds pretty encouraging, not mocking at all, kind… almost. Maybe if he can just… Simmons moves to shuffle back onto his feet, but the second he catches sight of what’s far, far, far below him his vision swims and he sinks back onto heels, staring decisively at the grey metal of the bridge and nothing else. “No – No! I think I’m good over here! I’ve already stopped and if I move now the chances of falling off and breaking every bone in my body increase dramatically and I’d rather not experience that for myself, so… I’ll stay here and you can just…” Simmons makes a small sweeping gesture with his hand, “keep going, you know?”

“Don’t disappoint the CO!”

Hammer, apparently, does not know.

“W-Would he be disappointed if you guys sent up a Pelican?” Simmons calls back, breathing harshly through his nose, “Or a… Or Maybe… Maybe you could – I’d settle for a parachute or a.. A _hang glider!_ ”

Simmons can’t help but glance down again, and the distance stretches out like taffy in his mind, making the ground seem farther and farther away from him, more and more likely to turn his bones to dust on impact. And then there’s that thunderstorm breeze again, hot and humid and insistent and Simmons squeezes his eyes shut and presses his fingers harder into the metal to try and stabilize himself. He’s in the midst of counting the seconds in-between inhales when someone suddenly appears behind him.

“Oh, hey – guys. Thanks for… Thanks for waiting!”

“Dude, what’s the hold up?”

“Oh. Wow, that _is_ really far down, you’d definitely die if you fell.”

“Nice. I guess we just live up here now, right?”

“What’s your name again?”

“Nah, doesn’t matter.”

“I’m Grif, by the way.”

* * *

Simmons blanks, staring wide-eyed at the passing scenery, “I think we killed him.” He feels remarkably comfortable in the passenger seat for someone who’s sitting where his dead teammate did just a couple minutes ago.

“Nah, it wasn’t our fault.”

“We were supposed to go with him...”

Grif shrugs and continues driving back towards base, “His death was heroic, and he’ll be remembered, and a medal will be sent home and blah, blah, blah, all that stupid, fake crap.”

* * *

“Okay, so,” Simmons jumps as someone drops their tray of food onto the table in front of him, causing a loud clacking sound that seems to echo in his ear, jolting and too loud, “I’ve been thinking about this all morning, and, like, seriously,” the person seems to be looking directly at Simmons, which is daunting when they’re wearing a helmet, and he’s not, “It makes no sense. If Shadowcat can, like, phase through shit, then why doesn’t she just fall through the floor?”

“W-What?” Simmons chokes as the person twists their helmet off with a degree of elevated haste, and he recognizes Grif from the bridge, from when they both killed Hammer, or let Hammer die, or whatever actually happened, “Shadowcat?”

“Yea, you know, _Kitty Pride_ from the X-Men?”

“I fucking know who Shadowcat is,” Simmons gawks, surprise set-aside for the moment to try and understand why Grif of all people was talking to him, sitting at his table. Simmons just assumed that it was a one-time deal, usually in the movies after you commit a crime, you go your separate ways until it eventually gets dug up and you have to kill your counterpart in order to protect your freedom. “What I meant was, like, why would she fall through the floor when she phases?” _Also, why are you talking to me?_

“Look,” Grif gestures with his head for emphasis as he steps into the bench seat across from Simmons, “when she phases, stuff can go through her, right? She goes through walls or dodges people by phasing, but then why doesn’t she just fall through the floor when she does that? What makes the floor different?”

“Gravity obviously affects her,” Grif continues, “because in X-Men: Evolution, she discovers her powers by falling through her bed in her sleep, so basically, she should constantly be falling through the Earth when she’s phasing.”

Grif pauses for a bite as Simmons stares, and then points his spoon at Simmons, “On the other hand, if Gravity doesn’t affect her when she’s phasing, then technically she can sort of _fly_ through solid objects, right? Like control the speed and direction she passes through them?”

Simmons opens his mouth, but then quickly decides that what he was about to say wasn’t really that smart, and closes it again. Grif doesn’t seem to notice, just calmly takes a sip from his canteen and looks around the bubbling mess hall.

“I mean…” Simmons starts, but doesn’t finish. “So… You’re saying that…”

“What,” Grif looks at Simmons like he’s sizing him up, “You’ve never thought about it before?”

“Well, I mean, Shadowcat was cool, but she was never my favorite.”

“Your loss then,” Grif shrugs, takes another bite, and Simmons sort of envies the fact that Grif can eat so casually in front of people like that. Grif doesn’t say anything else, and the silence starts to prick at Simmons.

“W-Well, what about Cyclops?” he shot fucking lasers out of his _eyes_!” Simmons finds himself trying to find the previous conversation again, which is weird because he’s pretty sure he just wants this guy to go away and then mysteriously show up in twenty years so Simmons can kill him and complete his arc as a movie criminal.

“Eh, he was too in love with Jean.”

Simmons sputters, affronted, and sets his spoon down. “You… Didn’t like Jean Grey?”

“What? No! Of course I liked her! I just didn’t like how Scott follows her around. Like, get a life, dude.”

* * *

Breathe in, breathe out, tune out everything else, he has to – he has to - god damn it. Simmons drops his shoulders and lowers his gun and glares at Grif, who’s standing next to him in a similar position but getting way more of a kick out of the flat and unmarked target practice paper in front of Simmons than Simmons himself is. Grif, on the other hand, is at least a decent shot and has managed to hit his mark a handful of times.

He’s like an annoying mosquito that won’t quite whining in his ear. Grif began appearing around him more, in the mess hall, casually at the end of the day on the steps of his barracks and he doesn’t say anything intelligent, but Simmons can’t deny that the attention is nice and that it feels good to have someone to talk to, but god-damn is he fucking annoying.

Simmons gravitates towards him during drills, hovering a couple feet away until Grif acknowledges him and begins to talk shit about everyone around them and Simmons starts responding and it’s a downward spiral from there; they feed off each other like egomaniacs, but not because neither of them have especially high self-esteem and it sucks and sucks and sucks and sucks but also sometimes doesn’t. But it mostly does.

“What are you looking at?” Grif drawls, lips pursing into a half-decent smile.

“Could you fucking shut up?” Grif gasps in mock hurt, murmuring something along the lines of _rude_ , and Simmons grits his teeth, “I can’t concentrate with you _giggling_ in my fucking ear.”

Grif shrugs and turns back to his own lane, taking aim and pulling the trigger like it’s no big deal, like he can relax like this, with the CO staring out of a window above them and judging them, and Simmons tightens his hands around his gun and turns back to his own business and misses the next few shots.

Breathe in, breath out, relax your posture, take aim, keep a loose trigger finger –

“Simmons.”

Simmons jumps at his name suddenly being said and narrowly avoids pulling the trigger and causing what would probably be a catastrophic accident. He turns his head and glares at Grif, anger making the heat rise to his face. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Standing next to him and fucking bothering him like they know each other, like they’re friends or some crap.

“What.”

Grif rolls his eyes at the hostility and settles a hand on the barrel of Simmons’ rifle. “Fucking relax. Move your hand up here –“ Grif points with his free hand “ – and aim a little lower.”

“What?”

“This isn’t a fucking video game, dude. Bullets don’t have the same arch that arrows in games do, especially at this range.”

Simmons blanks, staring and feeling embarrassed because Grif’s found him out and then turns and takes aim and relaxes and points the barrel of his gun just a smidge lower because fuck it and he misses again and Grif lets out a bark of laughter and Simmons glowers.

“Pull the trigger after exhaling, dude, haven’t you ever watched Zombieland?”


	2. Grows Like A Wildfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif nods and shrugs at the same time, does a jig that’s supposed to make it seem like everything’s normal and he’s acting casual and what he just said was no big deal, but it just makes him look silly. “You know, we’re in the army and all that shit, it’s what we do?”

It’s close to sundown in the camp, and Simmons cannot believe that he’s actually in control of his own body right now because he’s sure that he’d never _ever_ put himself in this situation by his own free will.

“Grif, this is definitely the opposite of a good idea.” Simmons cautions in a low voice as he stares intently at the back door to the kitchen, which sits a couple feet away from them. It’s propped up on some boxes, bent back wide revealing the empty kitchen from inside.

“You wouldn’t recognize a good idea if it slapped you in the face.” Grif clicks his tongue, but takes another slow look around to make sure they’re not being complete fucking idiots. He couldn’t chance giving Simmons an opportunity to be right after he’s talked himself up this far.

“Oh, yea? And _you’d_ recognize a bad idea?”

“My bad idea senses are as fine tuned as they could possibly be, Simmons, my radar is fully functional and there’s not a single blip, if you will, and so I’m safe when I say there isn’t a god damn bad idea any where near us.”

Simmons gives Grif an increasingly incredulous look the more he talks, and then turns back to the open door, trying to trace back all his previous actions to the point where his life began including this: Petty theft, crouched in the bushes outside the kitchen just before curfew, poised to sprint in. No matter what Grif says, this is definitely a bad idea, and so he tells Grif as much.

“This is definitely a bad idea.” Simmons side-eyes Grif hard.

“No, Simmons, it’s genius. We steal food, we bribe people to do our chores, then we play cards for the rest of basic.”

Simmons shakes his head, “Somebody will notice, either the missing food or the fact that neither of us ever lift a finger.”

“Nobody cares about us that much, Simmons, you overestimate our popularity.”

_Their_ popularity. Because it’s shared. Simmons doesn’t know how to feel about that.

There’s movement in the kitchen, and Grif and Simmons both duck, holding their breaths as the peak around the box they’re crouched behind. Someone exits the kitchen through the back door, but doesn’t close it, and then it’s quiet again. Simmons turns back to Grif. “Every person in a position of power hates us. We’re popular in the sense that people fucking _hate_ our guts. They’ll definitely notice.”

“What,” Grif tilts his head and looks at Simmons through his lashes, “You chicken?”

“N-No!” Simmons chokes and fumbles with his words, then glares at Grif, “You are.”

“What? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Fuck you.” Simmons continues.

“Yea, alright.” Grif rolls his eyes and focuses on the open door. He shuffles on his feet so he’s facing away from Simmons and crouched like he’s getting ready to pounce. A hunter stalking its prey, which lives in a fridge and is packaged to be airtight and inaccessible to germs and other microorganisms that’d fuck everything up. “On the count of three.”

“What?”

Grif sinks his toes of his trainers into the soft dirt. “One.”

“On three or after three?”

“On three,” Grif shoots Simmons an annoyed look, “Two.”

Simmons stomach tightens and he can’t do this. “Wait, Grif-” He should have never agreed to this –

“Three!” Grif takes off towards the door and Simmons squawks then stumbles after him. He’s sprinting like he did in high school, which is to say, poorly. Grif makes it through the doorway and Simmons follows him seconds later, half expecting the lieutenant and the sergeant to be standing on the other side of the doorway, arms crossed and feet tapping.

They’re not there, though, so Simmons lets out a breath of relief, feels like the whole continent just slid off his shoulders, and then he turns to have a look around. He’s never been assigned to the kitchen so this is the first time he’s been in here, but Grif seems to know his way around, unsurprisingly, and makes a beeline for the fridges.

It’s dim and warm, the door was probably meant to let in the breeze, and the walls, the counters, the ovens, the sinks and fridges and cabinets are all grey. Probably some version of stainless steel. There’s the raspy sound of the ventilation running and the crinkling of wrappers as Grif swipes ration bars off the tops of each stack, trying to make the remaining supplies look as organic as possible. Simmons gives him that, at least; Grif actually has a semi-decent plan and the ability to carry it out.

Simmons stands just inside the doorway, peaking out, eyes trained on any shadows that move, and when he glances back at Grif to check on his progress, feeling antsy, he sees that Grif’s moved on to a different part of the kitchen.

It’s still quiet outside, the sun is a little lower, the shadows a little taller, and the sky is loosing it’s red. The distance sound of shouting has died down as more and more people turn in for the night, and Simmons listens as hard as he can, like willing his hearing to be better will actually make it so. His helmet would be useful right about now, he could get a little display and enhanced directional hearing, but for now he’s stuck in sweats and an ill-fitting T-shirt and some grey running shoes that have pebbles stuck in the soles because wearing his helmet would be too suspicious.

“Simmons!” Grif hisses his name from right behind him and Simmons can feel his heart leap out of his chest. “I’m done.”

“Alright,” Simmons nods, squeezes his eyes shut, and sucks in a deep breath.

“You alright, dude?”

“Yea. Let’s just go.”

“Alright.”

Simmons peaks out of the doorway first, looking left, then right, and in the middle of his second check, Grif strolls out with a laundry bag full of contraband tossed over his shoulder, crinkling muffled slightly, like he doesn’t have a single care in the world. Simmons jolts forward to catch up with him, then falls in line next to him. Right, left, right, left, right, matching pace.

Simons is deathly aware of the laundry bag in a way Grif isn’t, he feels like it’s on fire, flames licking at the side of his face, making his eyes water as he glances at it from the corner of his eye. Grif is unaffected where Simmons is twitchy and jumpy.

They make it to their spot behind Grif’s barracks without incident. Simmons sinks into his spot on the floor, looking dumbfounded and utterly relieved, and Grif plops down next to him with a laugh, and then Simmons is laughing and snorting, which only causes Grif to laugh harder and so on because they both feed the flames.

Simmons glows and Grif grins at him and calls him a stupid fucking nerd, but tosses Simmons the reddest apple he’s ever seen in his life anyways.

* * *

Grif sprawls across his bunk, and Simmons sits next to him on the floor, with his back against Grif’s locker. It’s easier to hang out in Grif’s barracks, Simmons is a guy and this where all the guys sleep except for Simmons because the government still considers him a woman because everything sucks and sucks and sucks and sucks.

Grif’s either stupid and believed Simmons’ flimsy lie about it being a clerical error, or is smart enough to know and just doesn’t bring it up, and Simmons sincerely hopes it’s the former because fuck, nobody can know. At this point, people just assume he’s a man and he is and so he wants to leave it at that because he’s happy with that; no more fuss, no more confusion, just the simple truth. He is a man and has always been one.

Grif jolts, then sighs dramatically and passes the datapad over to Simmons, who promptly restarts the little time-waster game and tries not to squander his turn. The pad flashes and the screen melts into a multitude of colors as the levels progress until Simmons gut tightens as he nears Grif’s high score.

It’s late, the outside lights have just flickered on and the Barracks is growing quieter as curfew approaches. Simmons would usually feel twitchier the farther away from his own bed he is as curfew approaches, but Grif’s been rubbing off on him and he finds himself wanting to laze around next to Grif with the datapad in his hands for a little longer.

Besides, going back to his bunk is humiliating, it’s like having to try out for the softball team all over again, except this time his dad isn’t instigating his misery, it’s the fucking military, and it sucks and sucks and sucks and sucks.

Simmons flinches and lowers the datapad in disgust as his character dies. A quick glance to the right tells him Grif’s watching, a silly smile on his face.

“Wow,” Grif snorts, “You really _do_ suck at everything.”

Simmons turns to Grif and gives him an unimpressed look, “Gee, what would I do without you here to remind me?”

Grif looks like he wants to say something, his face screws up and he opens his mouth, jaw hanging, then closes it and reaches down for the datapad with a shrug, “Probably die”

Simmons watches Grif for a moment, then decides to not push. He stands up and plucks his helmet off the bed. “Yea, probably.”

* * *

Simmons lounges in the passenger seat of the jeep, face turned upwards to the sky. It’s a clear blue, crisp, and strong; white clouds amble on and it’s calming. So is Grif’s voice, his quiet chuckle, his company, his banter. They’re not moving, stuck on motor pool duty together because they’re always together. Grif automatically took up post in the driver’s seat of the warthog farthest away from the entrance and Simmons followed because he’s good at that.

“Hey, Simmons?”

“Yea?”

Grif looks away. “Jean Grey verses Thanos, who’d win?”

* * *

They stand next to each other in the line up, and Simmons is near tears, shaking as the lieutenant screams himself hoarse about how theft from the military is punishable by a court martialing and dear fucking god, Simmons cannot get court martialed. He rattles and tries his best not to look down at his helmet in front of his feet because he wants it so bad, wants to have it on his head, hear the _hiss_ as it pressurizes and toy with the clamps and feel safe behind his visor.

He keeps his gaze steady and he feels his face slip into a familiar empty expression as the screaming grows nearer to him, nearer to Grif, closer and closer and so closer until it thunders and rages and Simmons hates the yelling.

Grif. Simmons sneaks a glance at the soldier without moving his head, from over his stiff shoulders, and Grif’s got a dead look in his eye as he squanders a smile that makes Simmons realize that maybe he’s enjoying this, that maybe he planned this, and Simmons can’t help but feel a little betrayed.

* * *

“Yea, so anyways, I’m being deployed next week.”

Simmons stops walking and looks up sharply from the reg manual he’d been reviewing. “…What?” They were on their way to the mess hall for lunch, Simmons reviewing for the last exam that might possibly get him out of active duty and Grif ambling on next to him, talking about this and that as Simmons hummed his agreement and barely paid attention to what he was actually saying. It was routine. Normal.

Grif nods and shrugs at the same time, does a jig that’s supposed to make it seem like everything’s normal and he’s acting casual and what he just said was no big deal, but it just makes him look silly. “You know, we’re in the army and all that shit, it’s what we do?”

“We’re –“ Simmons shakes his head, “We’re in the navy, and I mean… I thought… I thought we were… you know, being deployed at the same time.”

“Whatever, man. I’m not sure, they wanted me for a special colony or some shit, and I was like, not the front lines so fucking do what you will with me, I guess.”

“…Oh.” Simmons isn’t sure how he feels about this.

“Yea…”

Simmons isn’t sure when they started walking again, but he barely has time to look up before he’s facing Grif’s back as Grif pushes the swinging double doors open. He scuttles through the doorway behind Grif, who lingers to hold the door open and they don’t talk about Grif leaving again.

* * *

Simmons stares at the datapad in his lap, breathing in and out as evenly as he can. The blank email stares back at him, white light filling his glasses with an annoying glare. He’s got this – he has to have this – he has to at least do this.

Even though he yelled and got mad and left, even though he knows he didn’t deserve to be treated that way, it was just a misunderstanding and it doesn’t erase the fact that he could have been nicer, listened more, smiled more, and it wasn’t…

He owes them this much.

_Dear Mother and Father_ –

No. Simmons shakes his head and shifts around in his bunk for a more comfortable position. He’s got a pillow shoved behind him to save his back from the wall and the goddamn sheets won’t stop getting caught in his legs and so he grunts and kicks them, grits his teeth and scowls and then – okay. Okay. Okay, calm down. He has to calm down. He has to… He has to just get this over with, send something short and sweet and tell them he loves them and it’ll be good. It will all be good.

_Dear mother and Father -_

No.

It’s too formal. They’ve always liked it when he treated them like a friend’s parents, like strangers whose word is final, absolute, not to be questioned or to be comfortable around, but it’s awkward to write and so Simmons hits backspace and starts again.

_Dear…_

_Dear Mom and Dad,_

_I hope you are doing well._

It’s a good start. He’s gotten a good start. He’s got a million thoughts in his head, he has a lot of stuff to think about – His evaluation, practicing his drills and improving his aim and Grif abandoning him but – but – He has to do this. He owes them this much.

_Dear Mom and Dad,_

_I hope you are doing well. I’m nearing the end of my training, and I figured you’d want to know how I’ve been._

Would they, though? Would they really want to know how he is? Would they really care? He knows they only want the best for him, and so… And so his dad couldn’t have possibly actually meant that he… Well, he was never their daughter, but Simmons is pretty sure his dad meant wasn’t voicing his support for Simmons when he said that he’s not their daughter anymore. His dad has never really been supportive of anything He’s done, but…

But he didn’t… He couldn’t have… He couldn’t have actually meant that because he’s supposed to…

_Dear Mom and Dad,_

_I hope you are doing well. I’m nearing the end of my training, and I figured you’d want to know –_

Simmons saves and closes the draft, sets his datapad down next to him, and turns so he’s sitting with his feet on the ground and his head bowed over the side of the bed, over his knees. Maybe he’d do this later, do this when…

Later. He’ll do this later because he’s got a test to study for and target practice in ten minutes and he has to prepare himself for having no friends again and it’s just too much to focus on. Give it a couple days.

With letters floating around in his mind, clips and phrases he wants to use, he stands and heads out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am suuuuper fucking sick rn and just want to post this so here we go yea?


	3. Doused With a Bucket of Cold Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons is quiet, and then he breathes out and lets the knowledge that Grif’s leaving slide away and he drops his shoulders and watches his feet as he wiggles his heels. “I’m sorry,” he says because he is.

Grif’s found a cliff, which isn’t something particularly difficult to find because their entire boot camp is cliffs, but the difference between Grif’s cliff and all the others is that his has a boulder at the very top. It’s been corroded and beaten down by the unrelenting torrent of storms into a smooth little alcove and the rock cradles Grif’s body and leaves Simmons mildly uncomfortable. Simmons scrunches and digs his heels into the soft dirt as insurance, too aware of the drop in front of him to relax, and Grif reclines and it’s mostly okay.

Soft and far, far away, the sky expands onwards littered with clouds a color that can only be described as lilac, a greyish purple that pushes at the cliffs around them. It’s an odd, unexpected sort of beauty that only comes out of a rainy day, the literal kind.

It’s an odd sort of beauty that shakes his bones and cements itself into the oldest, firmest part of his mind, roots digging deep and spreading; but basic is the worst and not even the most foreign of sunsets can erase that fact because as long-winded and steady memories of beauty are, memories of stuff that really fucking suck stick for as long as forever can possibly last, drawing the pain out and digging it’s claws deeper and deeper until tissue tears and tears burn and hair gets tugged and screams jumble in his throat and he finds himself confused and so, so, so tired on the bathroom floor with loneliness beating on his ribs and cracking at his skull.

It’s rainy and muddy and the dirt cakes onto his armor and dries in the joints and crumbles when he bends and the people are shouty and have sneers surgically grafted to their faces and everyone’s always looking at him and the clock ticks and Simmons is sorely aware.

There’s good, Simmons forces himself to admit that no matter what, there’s always good. There’s sneaking and laughing and a fist to cuff his shoulder, and he can find some peace with some small bits of his life because it’s possible and he wants to do that, but mostly basic is sitting with his back against a locked door as he thinks deliriously about his hard mattress and thin blanket waiting for him right on the other side. Basic is showers with no walls or curtains. It’s bitterness and ragged breath and thoughts of what he left behind because he swore he’d make something out of himself and look at him now, not doing that. The clock ticks, and he wastes time.

Grif is silent, mostly because he’s nursing a bottle of some alcohol, probably of the stolen variety, but also because this is his last night here and neither him nor Simmons know how to address it.

Simmons is smart enough to know he’ll probably miss Grif, or at least miss him more than he misses his own family, but he keeps his mouth shut tight and doesn’t say it because that’s a pretty sad thing and he knows it and he knows he shouldn’t say it.

“Do you ever think about home?” Grif’s voice is clear as day, the heavy meaning behind his words are perfectly communicated and Simmons has fully functional ears but he still finds himself choking on his spit and whipping around the stare at Grif.

Grif would let him get away with lying, he’d let him get away with making up a tall tale about his fairytale childhood and how he misses his white, two story house and picket fence and dog named spot but –

Simmons rolls his shoulders, a gesture that started off as a noncommittal shrug and then turned into something else entirely as Simmons’ defensiveness melts away into contempt, “Yea, I mean… Yea. I guess.”

\- But Simmons doesn’t lie, for a reason that goes right over his head. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s never going to see Grif again and so they can finally talk about the shit they just never talk about, maybe it’s the fact that Grif’s drunk on melancholy that’s thick and tangible and it rubs against Simmons or… Maybe it’s the lighting, the sky, the mellow purple it’s melted into, it’s throwing him off. That’s definitely it.

The sky expands and expands and it’s fucking _purple_ , lilac, pink, the orange is gone and the first stars begin to brighten and Grif’s face is painted a soft orangey-yellow from the lamp light down below, and it’s a nice color on him, Simmons thinks distantly. Three months and already, Simmons has never had a person like Grif in his life, someone who talks to him like he’s not doing him some sort of favor, no audible strain in Grif’s voice telling him he’s annoying, not worth anyone’s time – He’s losing that. He’s going to lose that.

“Do you miss it?” Grif asks, voice breaking through the silence.

Simmons doesn’t know the answer to that. It’s hard to tell because through all the ache he harbors, he can still remember the time his dad popped him up on his shoulders at Disney land, and though that shines through everything and fills Simmons with something light, he has to remember everything else. Everything else that his father’s done, what he didn’t, how his mom looked at him with her nose upturned and Simmons isn’t done thinking through his response when Grif speaks again.

“I do.”

Simmons is quiet, and then he breathes out and lets the knowledge that Grif’s leaving slide away and he drops his shoulders and watches his feet as he wiggles his heels. “I’m sorry,” he says because he is.

“Yea.”

Simmons lifts his head just enough to look at Grif, and finds him looking back and it should have filled Simmons with something like dread and embarrassment, but instead everything’s muted and out of tune and he just hears his heart beating steadily in his chest. “You want to talk about it?” He says reluctantly.

Grif gives him a look, quirks his eyebrows up and maybe lets something that looks like it could possibly turn into a smile leak through his dull expression, and then he shakes his head and takes another long drink from his bottle. “No, I was just curious about you. Do _you_ want to talk about it?”

Simmons draws his knees up to his chest, abandoning the holes in the dirt he dug out with his heels and sets his eyes firmly on the other cliff on the opposite side of the canyon. “No.”

“Fair enough.” Grif nudges Simmons shoulder with his canteen of contraband and Simmons accepts it without much hesitation.

The sun sets and then the stars come out and Grif has Simmons arm thrown over his shoulder as they stumble down the winding path to the barracks. It’s a mini avalanche of pebbles as they descend, slipping a few times on the gravel and Simmons’ voice is louder than it should be and Grif laughs and then Simmons wakes up alone in his bunk staring at the metal bars above him with a headache and awful tasting cotton in his mouth.

* * *

They don’t say goodbye, but Simmons watches Grif board a ship in brand new armor and he knows it’s Grif because the son-of-a-bitch is slumped and his armor is black and shiny and it covers more and Simmons had been there when he first put it on and tried it out. Grif had described it as being lighter, his steps where bouncier even with the movement resistance cranked up and he looked strong, capable, and if anyone else was wearing the armor, then they’d look noble, too. Grif’s got a new official air about him, but it doesn’t suit him. The armor doesn’t suit him, just looks like a layer on top of what’s actually Grif, who he actually is, and Simmons supposes that literally and physically, that’s true.

Grif steps onto the ramp, he’s got his thumbs looped around the straps of his duffle and his gun belted to the side of his pack and Simmons watches as he disappears inside the pelican, as the thrusters light up and as the ship rises, then tilts, nose up and then it’s fighting against gravity and it roars away, quick and easy and painless.

Simmons throat tightens, he swallows it down. He closes his eyes, shakes his head, and turns to amble back to the barracks to strip his gun with something dull sitting on his chest and he’s _fine_. He’s alone, but he’s _fine_.

* * *

He fails all his tests like an idiot because he always fails tests and the military was supposed to be about action, not more paper and answers to bubble in with number two pencils and he’s got no one to turn to so he sits alone on Grif’s cliff and watches the sunset and then returns to another locked door and he’s done.

He sits alone on the steps with his head in his hands and his fingers finding no grip in his buzzed hair and the rain starts again like it always does and Simmons is very, very done. He’s drowning in the rain and he’s done.

When he’s finally let in, he goes straight to his bunk and plucks his datapad from his locker and deletes the email draft meant for his parents because he’s done.

* * *

He’s not really done, though, because he gets his orders and is all too happy to leap up and comply as he’s shipped off to deal with an insurgent group in the outer regions calling themselves ‘Blue Team’.

The UNSC is all he has left and the least he can do is follow orders and hope that one day his worth will be recognized and he’d be promoted and respected and liked and he’d get a shiny medal and his father would smile and be proud of all the things his son has done.

* * *

The implants make Simmons feel like his head is being split open, being torn apart piece by piece, atom by atom until there’s nothing of him left. The back of his neck has an open, gaping hole and there’s a drilling sound louder than the whir of his helmet fans at the base of his skull and it’s jarring and it punches the breath right out of him. He tries not to fall forward too much and grips at the table in front of him in an attempt to keep stable.

Lights flash behind his eyelids, greens, purples, whites, there’s a loud hiss of air, and then pain blooms and flowers in a wave through his body and his knees buckle and then it’s over. The rough hand on the back of his head lets him straighten his neck and he’s tugged by his right arm backwards, his hands pawing for something to grab hold of. A scanner is shoved in his face, Men in Black style, and the lights dizzy him as they flash and he thinks about it for a couple seconds and decides that he doesn’t really mind forgetting all this at all.

He’s passed along blearily, from orderly to orderly, sometimes pushed, mostly just directed. He clutches at his helmet, holding it in front of his stomach, fingers tight, knuckles protesting, and he follows directions.

The grey building melts into a grey tarmac and a grey sky with grey planes and grey ships and grey command armor and it all blurs until he catches sight of standard issue red, pinks and oranges and he follows after the private in front of him with everything he has. Simmons grapples with the bright lights still flashing in his skull, tries to blink them away, and then the sharp air from outside hits his nostrils and he plunks his helmet on, twisting to secure it and flipping down the latches and he feels it tighten around his neck as it pressurizes and bites back any sound he might have made as his implants throb and flash.

His footsteps are clunky, his hands tingle and he’s not exactly sure what’s happening, but someone’s yelling commands at him, screaming stuff like _private_ and _stay in line_ and Simmons can deal with being told what to do so he does it. It’s easy, shut up and follow directions.

Stay in line? Yessir. Get in the Pelican? Yessir. Finish your plate? Yessur. Don’t make a fucking noise? Yesssur. Put on the dress and shut your stupid fucking mouth? Yesssssur…

The ground greets Simmons’ visor with a jolt, knocks the wind out of him so he’s gasping for air and his eyes cross and his vision blurs. He’s clumsy as he tries to work his hands underneath him, palms against the tarmac so he can push himself up, but his arms give way too easily and everything goes a fuzzy, popping black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My boy Simmons has some shit to work through but what can you do? He's trying. Anyways, I'm taking a break from writing 'cause I'm leaving for Summer vacation and probably won't be taking my laptop with me so I figured I'd post this real quick.   
> Hopefully when I get back I'll be more motivated to continue with some of my other stories because b o y am I full of ideas but completely lacking in the motivation to finish them.   
> Kudos and comments are appreciated, it's really cool to know that people enjoy what I write and have a nice day!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a moment, Simmons bears witness to paradise, grass as green as his parent’s manicured lawn, flowers up the cliffs and curving in the breeze, a waterfall cascading in the far corner, crystal clear and catching the light in a way that makes it glow. The other red marches off the ramp, and he’s greeted by who Simmons assumes to be his CO and new squad, all standing in rank and saluting, then breaking file to clap him on the back like some sort of eighties college football movie.
> 
> Then the ramp is pulled up and Simmons is left to watch as everything disappears behind grey and grey and he’s left alone in the quasi-darkness of the cabin, the pilot shut up behind a thick door and the straps of his harness pressing down awkwardly on his shoulders. The engines thrum and his queasiness returns full throttle. Simmons stares down at his hands, a lush valley and welcoming co-workers dancing in his minds eye, and he hopes that’s what’s waiting for him.

The shuttle jostles and shakes and the engines let out a high pitched whine as it enters the atmosphere, a sound that sticks to the inside of Simmons’ ears and pings around in his head, grating and fear inducing, and his implants throb, achy and hard. His heartbeat quickens and his eyes fall shut as he tightens his grip on the bars framing his torso. No amount of entries can acquaint him with the queasiness in his gut and the lack of air in his helmet; The way the hull of the ship rattles apart, the unnerving flashing of the overhead lights.

Another tremor rocks the shuttle and he’s knocked around in his seat, the harness sliding along his chest plate, searching for something to catch onto, and the metal bar pressing down unnecessarily hard on the tops of his thighs leaves a dull ache.

“S-So, where are you headed?” Simmons jerks his head to the left at the sound and is met with a soldier shouting over the racket, his helmet… somewhere, not on his head, that’s for sure, though Simmons can’t find it rolling across the shaky floor either so maybe it’s just gone. Or invisible. Simmons realizes that he’s been asked a question and chokes.

“Wh-at, me?!”

“Yea!” The soldier shouts, brown eyes glinting in the muted light. His cheeks are visibly vibrating and when he nods, all the movement makes his face blur into something else entirely, “Where are you going?” He doesn’t seem bothered by all the shaking, seems quite at peace while Simmons is pretty sure whole panels have peeled off the outside of the pelican at this point. Rough entry, rough life.

“I – uh…” Simmons swallows thickly, then continues to shout in a semi-hoarse voice, “Blood Gulch!”

“Oh, Neat! I’m going to Valhalla, this is my stop!”

Simmons tries his best to nod, stomach doing circus tricks, and their descent finally slows and slows until the ground evens out beneath him and the dull roar of the engines is all that’s left. The landing sequence audibly kicks in, and then they set down with a jar.

Simmons watches distantly as the soldier unbuckles his belts and materializes a helmet, his hair being smoothed down by the cushioned metal as he plops it on and twists to secure the locks, and the with a hiss, the pelican door opens, lowering and touching down with a soft bounce into the thick grass.

For a moment, Simmons bears witness to paradise, grass as green as his parent’s manicured lawn, flowers up the cliffs and curving in the breeze, a waterfall cascading in the far corner, crystal clear and catching the light in a way that makes it glow. The other red marches off the ramp, and he’s greeted by who Simmons assumes to be his CO and new squad, all standing in rank and saluting, then breaking file to clap him on the back like some sort of eighties college football movie.

Then the ramp is pulled up and Simmons is left to watch as everything disappears behind grey and grey and he’s left alone in the quasi-darkness of the cabin, the pilot shut up behind a thick door and the straps of his harness pressing down awkwardly on his shoulders. The engines thrum and his queasiness returns full throttle. Simmons stares down at his hands, a lush valley and welcoming co-workers dancing in his minds eye, and he hopes that’s what’s waiting for him.

* * *

Hours pass slowly when you’ve got nothing to look at but the seat across from you and your HUD. Simmons sits quietly in his seat, obediently in the empty darkness, as he tries to predict what Blood Gulch will be like, temperate, soft grass and a CO eager to watch his subordinates rise in the chain of command. He passes the time that way, wrapped up in his thoughts and strapped down by his seatbelt, and then the pelican lands and he walks out of the ship too eagerly, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. And then he’s outside and the pelican is gone and he’s standing on another cliff – why is it always cliffs?

Why does he find himself drawn to drop offs – high ledges of any kind – standing on the edge of the world, thoughts inevitably going towards territory like _what would it be like if I jumped?_ Before he reels back and stares distrustfully at the unstable edge and his disloyal, disloyal legs, because Simmons doesn’t want to die. Simmons would definitely fight and do a lot of things in order to preserve his life, but his brain’s just like that sometimes, the more he rejects a thought the more it clings to his consciousness, it’s return inevitable.

Simmons hops off the ramp, two feet next to each other and legs bent a little at the knees and isn’t greeted with a green valley with grey granite cliffs and a waterfall, but red dust and scraggly grass and another fucking cliff. He’s not greeted by professionalism and formality, he’s greeted with literally nothing, no one, because the pelican behind him took off the second both his boots hit the dirt and nobody is here to fetch him, say hello, show him the ropes and take him under their wing –

Maybe they’re late. They could just be late. Simmons glances around, then takes a seat on a conveniently chair-sized rock, and decides to wait, fingers tapping on his thigh and right leg bouncing.

Ten minutes pass, and Simmons slides off his helmet to take a gulp of fresh air, but is met with a mouthful of dry, dust-thick air and the smell of something dying. There’s no breeze, the climate is hot and the sun causes Simmons to squint, so he puts his helmet back on his head and vows to never be found outside without it again.

Twenty minutes pass, and Simmons becomes acutely aware of the fact that he’s bouncing his leg, and it becomes a chore.

Thirty minutes, and it still sucks.

Forty, and Simmons decides to move a couple meters to the right to sit in the shade of an outcropping. Hopefully he’s still visible from… From wherever the person who’s coming to pick him up is coming from. He hears his breathing, he hears the gravel crunch when he shifts, and he hears the fans in his helmet spinning round-and-round-and-round.

The sky’s powder blue, a perfect even color that stretches up and up and the halo stretches up and up and it all makes Simmons dizzy, makes him feel small compared to the universe, and so he decides to watch the heat waves rise off his armor instead, the way they distort the air and make the grass look funny, plain and simple and something that could happen anywhere: Here, Earth, basic, anywhere he’d rather be. He’s got dirt up his grieves, it contrasts on his blacks, where the armor breaks near his joints to allow movement, and it reminds him of the Grand Canyon, of the choky red dust and the knee high shrubs that litter the South West.

He took a family vacation there once, his parents shoved him into the backseat of a car the summer after second grade and for a week he sat in the too-big seat, curled up with his DS and a bag of Sun Chips. The dust got on him there too, his sneakers were caked in powdery dirt and it stuck to his temples where he sweat as they hiked. The grass was scraggly and the sky was an eerie blue and didn’t seem to have an end across the flat horizon.

Not a lot of good memories came out of that road trip, everything’s overshadowed by his mom’s tense body language, by the coming separation and then lack of divorce because it’d be bad for his dad’s reputation. It’s overshadowed by having his DS taken away and being forced to listen to the dead silence in the car because his dad doesn’t like the songs played on the radio and being chewed out when he got tired of hiking or got thirsty or hungry or showed any signs of being an actual human with body functions.

It was a grand sight though, the Grand Canyon. Simmons remembers standing a little ways away from his parents, feet on the first rung of the railing and fingers firmly wrapped around the top bit, feeling the warm air rush up and mess up his hair, feeling like he could fly, like he could jump and sprout wings and he’d never ever come back.

His dad had made a joke about Joe Dirt, but it wasn’t meant to be funny and the moment was stolen away from him faster than he could sink his hands into it and tug it back and keep it close because now it’s tainted and he’s never getting it back.

Not that he wants it back.

He doesn’t need memories like those, doesn’t need a happy childhood. He’s got… Other stuff. Other _cooler_ stuff. Like friends – _a_ friend. One friend. His name’s Grif and he likes to eat and watch nerd shows and he’s toootally not made up, so take that, dad. Take it and be _proud_.

An hour and twenty minutes pass and Simmons decides that it’s probably going to be night soon and he needs to get to base, escort or not. He walks as close to the cliff as he can stomach and eventually finds a narrow path that seems to wind for a bit, then let out at the bottom.

As he walks, clumps of dirt and rocks cascade down the cliff side, his boots lose traction every couple steps and Simmons can practically _feel_ his blood pressure rising thrumming and thumping right in his ear as gloves refuse to find a hold on the sheer rock face. This is too high, and though, with each stumbled step and wheezy breath, the height lessens, it’s still too high and he needs to – needs to stop. He needs to stop.

Halfway down the cliff, against his better judgment, ignoring the more sane part of his brain telling him that if he stops now he probably won’t start again, Simmons hunkers down, unceremoniously crouching with his back to the cliff and his hands planted firmly on the ground.

His breathing is loud in his helmet, louder when he tries to cage his breath in with his teeth and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get a handle on his senses and thoughts and all the little bits of his brain that just flat out hate him, cause all his fucking problems. Why couldn’t his brain just be normal? Function correctly?

Inevitably, his thoughts drift back to Grif, which is a topic he vehemently tries to avoid because it’s _weird_. He likes Grif, a lot. Not in the – okayokay – not in the _like_ -like sense, not in the like-like sense that happens when you’re the weird kid in middle school and people think you liking someone is an insult to that person but –

Simmons is an adult, and he’s absolutely positive that the only reason he’s thinking about Grif _right_ now is because he literally has nothing else to think about. He consoles himself with the fact that if he did know other people like he knows Grif, then he’d probably be thinking about them instead. He likes Grif, but not, like, a _weird_ amount. Because that’d be weird. And Simmons tries his best to be not that.

With a resolute huff, Simmons pushes himself back onto his feet and begins inching his way down the cliff again, one foot shuffling in front of the other, left hand pretending that it’s helping by sliding along the cliff side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyyyeee I'm back fucking hell where did my will to write go

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey hey guess who's back with another wip with no end in sight, fuck me right? anyways I'm all over the place rn and having a ton of fun just writing so here we go again.  
> I think the most appealing aspect of Grimmons to me is that they've been together for _ever_ , since basic and it's one of those relationships that sort of blurs the lines and is pretty fucked up but also pretty okay, so, I've done what I've wanted to do for a while and have begun a slow burn fic just for them that's actually set in the canon universe so yay for me.  
> If you want to find me on tumblr, I'm CaptainSimmons.


End file.
